red lust beating
by lust a prima vista
Summary: somewhere, at the back of the tangled snarls of memory, they remember this burn. —Axel/Larxene.


**disclaimer: **_I do not own Kingdom Hearts or any of the characters depicted here._

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It all starts innocuously enough, when they stand at the balcony which overlooks the Hall of Empty Melodies, idly commenting on the day's new turn of events. She remarks upon his surprising capacity for babysitting, and he only smirks emptily in response.

_I don't know, this kid sort of reminds me of when _I_ was a kid. _That's_ why I keep at this business, even if I don't actually enjoy it._

_Huh_, she breathes, uttering the muted syllable in the manner of a cobra shooting venom, thinly-veiled sarcasm palpable in that one word. _Well, I never. Are you saying that this brat reminds you of what it felt like to have a heart?_

His poison-green eyes crinkle with the beginnings of a cold, brittle smile. _In a roundabout way. Not that I expect _you_ to understand._

With that single sentence, with that single phrase, he invokes a lifetime's worth of memories she would much rather never have to think about ever again. She remembers the pain of having her heart broken long before she loses it, remembers the icy shell she surrounds it with long before she loses herself. A phantom memory of anger coils like a snake in the pit of her stomach, and she glowers at him, fingers curling into a knotted fist.

_Shut the fuck up. You know nothing about me._

But the smile is still there, insouciant and arrogant, and the mere sight of it galls and sickens her to the very core of her empty being.

She ignores the bite of her fingernails digging against the palm of her hand and without thinking, without considering the repercussions of her actions, she _swings_. Her fist hits the side of his jaw with a satisfying _crack_, and he staggers and glances up to meet her eyes, a black-gloved hand reaching gingerly upwards to contemplatively stroke the beginnings of a bruise.

_I should have expected that,_ he remarks calmly, almost as though he is commenting about the weather. _You never struck me as the kind who would go for the more dramatic option of slapping people._

She is on him with a feral hiss, forcing him into an alcove; she does not stop until she feels the breath forced from his lungs, until she can feel the impact of the wall jarring her arms, and she has him cornered, cornered like an animal with no escape.

The frustrating smile is still in place.

Without a word, she summons a single knife which hums and throbs with the raw power of harnessed lightning. With careful deliberation, she presses it to his throat, rests the tapered point against his chin, and pushes gently. _Tell me why I shouldn't just cut your throat,_ she spits, fingers tightening around the handle.

Axel chuckles humourlessly. _Because without me, you and Marluxia won't have the necessary firepower – pun intended – to topple the likes of Xemnas and Saïx._

Her hand spasms involuntarily, and the knife jerks in response, nicking his skin; he only gazes implacably back at her, features shadowed by the paltry light which filters into the alcove. _What makes you think we need you?_

He laughs then, a harsh, discordant sound, and reaches forwards to cup her chin. _What makes you think _you_ don't need _me_?_

She flinches away then, and he acts: he grasps her wrist, twists her arm, swiftly knocks the tongue of electrified metal from her grasp, bears down upon her with an empty grin. They tumble to the floor in an inglorious mass of limbs and flapping black leather, two jackdaws struggling in midair as they buffet one another with savage wings. One moment, she has the upper hand, and the next she is pressed to the floor, the marble cold and hard against her spine, and he has a chakram to the column of her throat, one of the eight silvered points pressed against her jugular.

_Well, what are you waiting for?_ she snaps, refusing to give him the satisfaction of struggling against his grip. _If you want to end it, do it now._

_Tut-tut,_ he hums in an infuriating whisper. _You can't be giving up now, can you? Especially when we still have plans to set into motion._

_Bastard_, she hisses, soft, snakelike, her voice dripping with contempt; with a surge of effort, she succeeds in forcing him away from her, and uses her momentum to roll them over, until she straddles him and has her arms braced against the floor and tangled in his hair.

He grins up at her, lips arching into a mocking travesty of a smile which makes her want to claw his face off, to bring cold metal to warm skin and cut, marring the planes and angles of his features. _That's pretty typical of you, too. Don't change it, though – I quite like it that way._

At her expression, he laughs openly.

_What's wrong, kitten?_ He grins, grins through his teeth, and laces his fingers behind her head, pulls her roughly down to him; when they kiss, there is no passion in the contact, only her snarl and his smirk, only the harsh scrape of enamel against enamel. His heat fills her mouth, and for a single, fleeting instant, she enjoys it, _savours_ it – almost, _almost_ – until she remembers.

_I'll make you pay,_ she growls, and rears away from him; she half-turns, and, without averting her gaze from his, wrenches off her glove with her teeth and drops it unceremoniously to the floor.

A lazy, fishhook smile twists across his lips. _Bring it._

_Don't cry,_ she smiles, as she wrenches on the zipper at his throat, and works the lower one up by degrees.

A tensing of his muscles, and their positions are reversed; she feels herself being slammed back onto the floor, fingers scrabbling at his silvered hood-ties. _Won't even think about it—_

The last word never makes it out of his mouth, when she threads her bare fingers through his hair and _jerks_. His muttered oath gives her a surge of malicious glee, as she wrestles with his coat and sinks her teeth into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder.

They struggle fruitlessly against one another on the cold, hard floor for several seconds, her clawing at the back of his neck, and him roughly shoving impeding garments out of the way.

It is certainly _something_, to feel him hot and firm against her hip. _Do you want it?_ she whispers into his mouth, savours the taste of him, like woodfires and metal and something salty-sweet and – _odd, this_ – sour cherries, unfamiliar but _welcome_ at the back of her throat. He groans when she slides a leg between his, as her fingers wander towards the hardness which rubs against her; a hissed expletive escapes from his lips when she pulls at the zipper and grasps him in her hand, fingers playing along his length. _You just have to say the word._

He does not answer, but she knows _she_ wants _him_; she can feel the lust which burns her from within, feel the warm dampness, slick against her legs; she only hears the soft rasp of whatever fastenings remain being displaced, and then she _really_ feels him, rigid and searing against her skin.

For a single, frozen instant, there is perhaps something of hesitation, hanging in the air; then it's gone, and he's _inside_ her, filling her up with the fiery heat of his body.

There is no rhythm to their coupling. Nothing remotely tender or loving about it. They both live for the _here_ and the _now_, and her mind is preoccupied with the feel of his body against her own, the feverish heat of his skin against hers. She grabs fistfuls of his hair, slick and damp with sweat, and pulls savagely, indicating when to thrust harder. She is only vaguely aware of his hand – strong and sinewy – which brushes against her, stroking lasciviously at her heated core.

In response to the casual flick of his finger, she _snarls_, snarls with all the bloodcurdling savagery of a wild beast, and clamps down on him from within. She is rewarded by a harsh gasp, as he bucks and twists, fingers recoiling as though stung.

The impact of their bodies against one another beats in tandem with the rush of blood in her head, and as her grip tightens on his back, she senses he is close, and she is reminded of the fact that this is a test, a competition.

_Who will submit first?_

In a verbal spar or a physical match, it was always down to who could land the finishing blow, who could bite back with the harshest, most vicious rejoinder. But this, _this_ is different.

She summons up a surge of electricity, sends it skipping and dancing throughout her entire body. In response, Axel stifles a moan with gritted teeth, and she kisses him again; the salty-sweet taste is stronger now, heavy on the tip of her tongue, and she bites down on his lower lip until she draws blood, and savours the sharp, metallic tang in her mouth.

_You bitch_, he pants, and she laughs, shrill and disjointed, as another spark of electricity jumps across their skin; the sound is high and tight, and even though she knows he is almost there, she has to make sure he submits before she does.

She feels a trickle of warmth down her thigh, feels his teeth scrape against her skin as he raises his head from her chest, as he fights fruitlessly across the torrent of sensation which ripples through him.

_Damn you,_ he gasps, and he shudders, grits out her name – accompanied by a stream of obscenities – and then it's over – _she's won – _and she comes as well, arching her back and pressing herself against him, teeth locked on his shoulder as she stifles the incoherent noises she makes.

They peel themselves apart with undue haste, recoiling from one another's damp, sweaty proximity with disgust; he fastens his belt and restores all his zippers to their former position, fighting against the clinging embrace of his coat as he pulls it up to hide the marks left by her teeth and nails. She rights her own attire and briskly smoothes down the folds of creased black leather with smug, vindictive glee, bending stiffly to retrieve her fallen gloves.

_Don't think you've won just yet,_ Axel sneers, still flushed from exertion; he summons a portal, presumably to head back to his chambers – they may live in the heat of the moment, and do not care about trifling issues like _neatness_, but even _he_ realises that it would not do to head off to the group meeting reeking of sex, his coat slick with fluids which aren't his own.

She brushes off an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve.

_I'll be waiting,_ Larxene replies with a wink and a smile, and she's gone, enveloping herself in the cool touch of darkness.

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**notes: **_Written for the Kingdom Hearts kink meme on LiveJournal._


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